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but there was one message, loud and lively:
“Yo, Carnegie, Rick the Rocket here. Got your message, but I’m real busy today. I’m doing a wedding gig at SAM tonight. I’m leaving right after on a red-eye for Vegas, so if it’s important, come on down and I’ll talk to you when I’m on a break. Dorothy Fenner’s in charge, she says it’s OK, and maybe you’ll pick up some pointers. See ya.”
Chapter Twenty
SAM WAS THE SEATTLE ART MUSEUM, NOT A STARTLINGLY original venue for a wedding reception, but very nice, very upscale. My mental Rolodex said it had room for five hundred guests stand-up, or two hundred at a seated meal, and a good marble floor for dancing at the foot of the grand staircase. Catering by the Seattle Sheraton, on exclusive contract. Joe Solveto would love to get a foot in the door at SAM; when he heard where I’d been, he’d want a close critique of the food and the service
As I steered the rental car into a cavernous parking garage near the museum, I wondered which of Dorothy Fenner’s clients had chosen this venue for a Saturday-night reception. Then, as I was fussing around trying to lock up—why do the cheapest cars have the fanciest electronic gizmos?—I remembered: Mayor Wyble’s daughter Sarah. The bride’s mother had interviewed me for the job, after a nice recommendation from Joe’s partner, but then she went with the silver-haired Dorothy. “Someone just a bit more experienced” was the way Mrs. Wyble put it. Those were the breaks, but still, it rankled. Pointers, my ass.
The museum’s grand staircase is flanked by a wall of windows facing a terraced plaza along University Street. Waiting for the light at the corner, I could see animated people in gowns and tuxedos moving up and down in a silent, brightly-lit pantomime of festivity that glowed against the evening’s gloom.
A familiar face met me at the upper level entrance: Marvin, doing another off-duty stint as a security guard. Dorothy had told him I was coming, so he just nodded and pulled open the door. Inside, in the roaring clamor of voices, laughter and music, I was intercepted by a glassy-eyed young usher who was starting to fluff his lines.
“Hi! I mean, uh, thank you for joining us. The coatroom is around the corner there, and the buffet is open, and, and everything. Thank you for joining us.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stepped around him and looked down the staircase, past the people dining at the midway landing, to the jam-packed dance floor at the bottom. This was a more sedate crowd than we’d had at the Aquarium, but Rick the Rocket, in a tux and a party hat, had coaxed them out of their seats with some Rolling Stones. His mike was on, and he was making crowd-pleasing comments about the bride and groom, who were getting down and dirty in the middle of a ring of dancing friends. There was a spark in the air that was both familiar and exciting to me: the contagious, spine-tingling sizzle of a successful event.
“Carnegie, how lovely to see you!” Dorothy, in floor-length lavender chiffon and ever-present pearls, swept over to greet me with her usual aristocratic charm. We exchanged air kisses, and I smelled liquor. Interesting. I had never, but never, seen Dorothy tipsy. There was a wistful, faraway look in her eye that suddenly sharpened to something less refined. “I suppose you’ll be fishing around for my prospective client file.”
“Pardon me?”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. You don’t know yet, do you? I’m retiring. This is almost my last Seattle wedding.”
“Oh.” I’d been competing with Dorothy Fenner—often in vain—since I started Made in Heaven. She was a pain in the neck, but sort of a fixture in my professional life.
“I’ll miss you,” I said, and I almost meant it.
“I’ll miss the business!” she exclaimed, a little shrill, and definitely inebriated.
“Then why—”
“My husband,” she said, as if the word tasted bad, “wants to play golf. In Scottsdale. Says he’s tired of the rain. I’ll fly back for the Tyler girl’s wedding, but after that I’m finished.”
Sally Tyler’s mother was the CEO of MFC, Meet for Coffee, and even richer than her own espresso. Yet another account I had lost to Dorothy—but maybe the last one I would lose. Hooray for Scottsdale.
“You came to see the disk jockey?” Dorothy was asking.
“Yes. It looks like he’s going on break, so I’ll go down and catch him right now.”
It took me